


Ontogeny

by aries_taurus



Series: Indulgence [3]
Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: Angst, Binging, Bulimia, Eating Disorders, Emetophilia, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Masturbation, Purging, Self-Harm, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-10
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2018-01-08 06:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1129645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aries_taurus/pseuds/aries_taurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part III of the Indulgence series.</p><p>Ontogeny: developement, growth of an organism.</p><p>Steve grows up and so does his problem. This is the bridge between Origin and Indulgence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ontogeny

**Author's Note:**

> I struggled with this one, but here it is. It's not perfect, I'm not entirely happy with it but it stands as it is.
> 
> It's Steve as a Senior in hisghschool on the mainland and a Senior at Annapolis, until he's heading back to O'ahu after his father was killed.
> 
> It's the missing piece between Origin and Indulgence.
> 
> It's a little less graphic but still.

 

* * *

 

1994, Army-Navy academy, Carlsbad, California.

Senior year.

 

He doesn’t do it again, not for a while. Not till six months before graduation.

Mainly because it bothers him.

It’s… wrong. He knows that. What he doesn’t get is _why_ it’s wrong.

Not why he did it. He knows that; he wanted to feel better. He did something that made him feel better.

He doesn’t understand why that’s wrong.

He just knows it is.

The hole inside is still there; that insatiable hunger that makes him feel hollow, alone, abandoned. And angry. So angry it consumes him from the inside.

Military school is hard. It’s like he can’t do anything right.

It just makes the hole feel bigger.

They tell him he needs to learn control. Discipline. That he’ll find comfort in that. A strong body equals a strong mind.

Uncle Joe tells him the same; train hard and you’ll succeed. You’ll be a part of the team.

 _You won’t be alone anymore_ is what he hears.

He learns. Control. Discipline. He’s in control.

But the hole’s still there. The hunger is still there.

He trains harder. He has to beat the hunger into submission. He controls it. Eats only what is good for his body and trains ten times harder when he slips.

Dessert means ten more laps around the track, an hour in the pool, a hundred push-ups, twice as many sit-ups.

When he’s elected starting quarterback, he goes out to celebrate with his offensive line on Friday night, the only night they’re allowed to leave campus. They’re his, their only goal now to protect him from the other team’s defense.

They take him to some all you can eat place.

He eats.

More and more and more. Can’t stop.

It feels so good to feel his stomach filling that he can’t stop. No one cares. They’re all doing the same.

No one notices he puts away more than any of them even if he’s half their size.

It’s too much.

He shouldn’t have done that.

It lacks _control_.  He let the hunger win.

It makes him feel like he’s worthless. Like he failed.

It makes him feel sick.

He keeps walking.

He tells them he has to study and ditches them, heading for the field, towards his dorm.

He waits till they’re gone, out of earshot and he goes to the far end of the football field, behind the bleachers, where the lights don’t quite reach.

It’s not the beach, but it’ll do.

He leans against the pillar and spreads his legs, putting his hands on his knees, mouth full of spit.

He shouldn’t have eaten so much. He lost control.

No.

He chose that, chose to satisfy the hunger. He controls everything. He knows what he’s doing.

He feels sick, about to throw up. Out of control.

He knows how to take it back. He puts his fingers in his mouth, telling his body when it’s allowed to purge. _He_ decides. _He is in control_. Always.

He shoves his fingers all the way back until they touch that spot in the back of his throat.

_Now._

His body obeys.

Vomit fills his throat and it’s hot and foul and so satisfying when he feels it coming back up and out of him.

He’s not scared. Not anymore because he knows how good he’ll feel after. He feels his throat convulse and fill anew and he lets it pour out of him and onto the ground and in the back of his mind, he think it’s a lot like sex only bigger, like an orgasm; huge semen-like spurts coming out of his stomach because when he’s done, he’s filled with that odd sense of well-being, the kind he only feels after sex.

It builds inside him; he feels it twisting and bubbling and it erupts in a great big splash he can’t stop, doesn’t want to.

It takes fifteen minutes for his stomach to be completely purged, for him to reach the moment he craves.

When it finally stops, he’s exhausted but he feels light, relaxed. Good even. So good he can feel himself getting hard.

He puts a hand down his pants and starts rubbing himself, eyes on the mess on the ground. No one’s there. No one will know. He opens his pants and keeps at it.

He comes with a quiet cry, biting his lip, watching the thick ropes of come mix with the vomit between his spread legs.

Back home, the first time he did this, he didn’t quite know what he was doing.

Now, he knows.

Knows why too.

Because he chooses.

Because it makes him feel better.

 

Dawn comes. He doesn’t understand why he feels guilty but he does.

There’s no reason.

Maybe it’s because people think it’s wrong. Dangerous.

It’s not. Because he’s in control. It’s dangerous if you lose control. Let it control you.

He knows what he’s doing.

 

* * *

 

 

1998, Naval Academy, Annapolis.

Senior year. First semester.

 

Psychology is not something he thought he’d ever study but he likes it. It’s interesting.

Until they start talking about psychological disorders and the DMS –IV.

Eating disorders.

He’s drawn to that section and he knows why. He knows what he is. He’s smart. He’s known from the start.

_Bulimia nervosa._

It sounds ugly.

He reads the diagnostic criteria and he smiles. He’s fine. He was wrong. He’s nowhere near the 2 times a week for three months binge and purge cycle.

He hardly does that more than once or twice a trimester.

He’s normal after all.

Still he reads on.

Non-purging type.

Fuck.

His heart pounds in his chest. It’s him. It’s _him_.

He’s lightheaded and dizzy, hot. He needs to get out of here.

He stumbles out of the library and onto the quad, bumping into a bunch of mids on his way. He doesn’t care. He finds a bench in the shade and sits heavily, panting and sweating.

He feels sick. Out of control.

It was just an illusion… It’s true. He’s… _sick_. Abnormal. The realization turns his stomach.

He doubles over and vomits his carefully selected lunch onto the stone. He feels a bit better.

How ironic, he thinks.

He feels… betrayed. Misled. It was supposed to make him feel _better_! It wasn’t supposed to make him a _freak_!

“McGarrett? You all right?”

He shakes his head, lightheaded. He’s not. He feels like he’s drowning. Can’t breathe.

They take him to the infirmary. He spends three days there, unable to stomach anything other than water. The thought of food disgusts him, the betrayal so intense he can’t bear it.

In the end, the hunger is stronger than him and he caves, eats a little, keeps it down.

They send him back to his bunk, blaming a virus. He’s got the weekend do get over it.

He does a lot of research on Saturday. The Internet is great for that. The psych paper he has to write is the perfect cover. If this is what he is… You need to know the enemy to triumph over it.

He learns a lot.

He learns he’s not alone and that he was right all along. Some people think what he’s doing is wrong but… Some people don’t. That he’s not really such a freak. That as long as he’s in control, there’s no danger.

What he learns is how to do it better, how to control it better; what his body needs, what it can and can’t endure. He learns to use markers, learns to stay away from the pills. Not to use his fingers.

On Sunday, he gets a day pass.

He rents a car, fills the trunk with enough food for four and heads to the beach. It controlled him, this week. His body acted without permission.

Today, he takes control back.

 

* * *

 

Oahu, 2010.

 

Once he graduates and becomes a SEAL, it becomes easier, like the hole is filled somehow. He thinks maybe it’s because he’s always in control. Always.

He finds a way. And one day, it just goes all wrong.

Freddie dies and he can feel the hole opening up again. Only he doesn’t have time to really feel it. He needs to get Hesse out of Korea. 

The phone rings and his world falls apart.

He does the only thing he can; he goes home.

After the funeral, after he leaves the Navy behind and the sun goes down, he cleans the blood off the floor and the walls.

He cleans out the cupboards and the fridge too, ingurgitating everything that falls under his hand, until he can’t swallow anymore but he forces it all down his throat regardless. More and more and more and more, until it hurts so bad he’s afraid he’s gone too far.

He stumbles to the beach and gives into the urge he hasn’t had in years.

He may be out of practice but his body remembers what to do. It’s as if sitting in that chair by the water is the only trigger he needs. The purging’s violent, uncontrolled but cathartic, like he’s vomiting up all his pain along with the contents of his stomach and once he’s done, it doesn’t feel like enough because that feeling he’s chasing, that relief, isn’t there.

So he does it again. This time, he finishes with an entire bottle of bourbon. He chugs it right on the beach, unconcerned about alcohol poisoning. It won’t stay in his body long enough to matter.

He refuses to use his fingers and as the booze starts to hit his system, he gets scared. He drank too much and he can’t wait. The pain’s too much and he needs relief.

He shoves his fingers down his throat and doesn’t get far before he tastes blood and bleach still stuck to his fingernails.

His body convulses and he falls to his hands and knees, bourbon and bile pouring out of him and into the water lapping over his hands. He loses track of time, can’t breathe as his body rebels against the abuse he subjected it to.

It eventually stops and he blinks, disoriented.

He’s still on his knees, the water lapping at his legs, his face only a few inches from the surface.

He’s a mess, covered in tears and vomit but finally, _finally_ , he feels better. Exhausted, but better.

He gets himself up out of the water and staggers back to the house and to the shower.

He’s got a big day tomorrow.

 

TBC in part IV.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm working on part IV, set after Indulgence, in which Danny confronts Steve about what he suspects. I don't know how it goes yet.
> 
> As usual, feedback on this series is critical for me. This is hard to write and harder still to keep Steve from going OOC....
> 
> So let me know. I appreciate it.


End file.
